


You Attract More Johns with Milk than with Yarders

by singularly_obsessed (orphan_account)



Series: Domesticity 221b [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, John Whump, M/M, i dont know what it is about sh pov and italics but, ish, sort of i'm just an asshole to him, they are lovers i am too weak to keep apart sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-13 01:10:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7131998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/singularly_obsessed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John was already not having the best of days, and Lestrade bursting in on his shower did not make it any better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Attract More Johns with Milk than with Yarders

**Author's Note:**

> Hey look I'm capable of writing 2k in a day wow who knew not me.
> 
> So yes, that series possibility I talked about ages ago is finally a thing. All works in this series are stand-alone unless stated otherwise, they are not chronological unless stated otherwise, and if there is a sequel it will be posted as a chapter in the work rather than an entirely new one. (HA watch me forget this.)
> 
> This particular idea I've had in my mind since I joined this fandom. In other words: it's been on my mind for over two years. Now _that's_ what I call procrastination!
> 
> Beta'd by the ever-wonderful [Emily_Nicaoidh,](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Emily_Nicaoidh/pseuds/Emily_Nicaoidh) and still no brit-pick.

John was not having a good day.

When he’d woken up, Sherlock’s side of the bed had already been cold. Now usually that wasn’t anywhere near enough to throw him into a funk, but he’d had a pretty shite night before and would really have liked to have had a lie-in with his lover. But it just wasn’t to be, and he hadn’t even had the option of settling for a good morning cuddle as he made breakfast if the post-it stuck to the bathroom mirror proclaiming OUT. CASE: 6. TEXT YOU LUNCH. –SH meant anything.

And all that was before he had made tea and been forced to drink it milkless because he hadn’t seen the OUT MILK –SH in time to brew coffee instead.

Then he’d seen the weather report (bloody torrential rain, as it had been for the past two and a half days) and hadn’t been able to find his warmest jumper _or_ his best coat, which meant he’d had to eat cold toast because he’d been too focused on trying to find them and hadn’t heard it pop.

At that point John had read the signs and was beyond willing to call in “sick,” but two of his co-workers had apparently beat him to it because he’d not even unlocked his damn phone before the surgery was ringing, telling him that they needed him to work a longer shift.

A longer shift that started in ten minutes.

(Needless to say, he hadn’t been wearing his best jumper or coat when he had run out the door.)

But he’d arrived, drenched and more than frustrated that his oyster card hadn’t worked (and he knew not to try and hail cabs, only Sherlock had the power in that weather, not to mention the lack of cash John was currently suffering), only a handful of minutes late. After drying off to the best of his abilities, he’d jumped into the lion’s den that was the overload of patients that needed to be seen without a complaint.

His reward for showing such restraint was two children (not siblings) and a mum (not either one of theirs) vomiting on him, forcing him to use every last spare article of clothing he’d stored in his desk, and a man shitting a mix of cocaine (the bag had burst in his anus, which was what he was in for in the first place) and faeces on his shoes, for which there was nothing to do but wash off as best he could.

All of this had naturally taken place in the first four hours of his shift.

When Sarah had run into him on his way out of the bathroom, she’d taken one look at him and said, “You know, I think we’ve got everything handled now, and you weren’t supposed to be here long anyway. Why don’t you head on home?”

In other words: she’d handed him a bullshit excuse to get the fuck back in bed.

John might have cried if it would have made his day any better, but since it wouldn’t have he’d walked right out the door without a backwards glance.

Which brought him to now, standing under the shower head, water as hot as it could go in his greatest attempt to phoenix himself away from this disaster of a morning.

The hot water was at least doing a magnificent job of making him feel clean again, John admitted to himself, ducking under the spray to thoroughly wet his hair. The idea of putting clothes on was not a little abhorrent too, and John was quite in love with the idea of just _not_. This was his flat, which he shared with his lover, who had seen it all before. Mrs Hudson had learned her lesson to knock and _wait_ before entering months ago, so as long as a robe or blanket was within reach that wouldn’t be a problem either. And the downpour would do a better job at keeping clients away than Sherlock in a black mood.

For the first time that day, John smiled, lathering the shampoo thickly into his hair. The morning may have been horrible, but his evening didn’t have to be.

It was right about that moment, as John moved his head back under to rinse, that he heard the bathroom door open, followed by Lestrade’s distinctive voice yelling, “I’ve waited long enough for that damn report, Sherlock, and I will haul you out—” as he ripped the curtain aside.

Also at that moment, due to the Lestrade-curtain-distraction, shampoo dripped into John’s eyes.

Most importantly, it was at the moment that John had had enough.

\- - -

Greg was also not having the best of days. His morning was nowhere near as horrible as John’s had been, as he would find out a few weeks later over an initially awkward pint (it was one thing cutting in on a mate’s shower who’d cut in on you (payback is something Greg was surprisingly good at, many find out), but it was something else cutting in on a mate who’d done nothing but right by you), but it wasn’t one he would be remembering because of any spectacular accomplishments.

In actuality, Greg’s day had only turned as tedious as it had because Sherlock had been a Sherlock-without-a-John, and he was not good enough at Sherlock-predicting to get what he wanted from Sherlock-lacking-a-John with the expediency his superiors preferred.

Really, it would have taken Sherlock not ten minutes to explain himself more completely than shoving what Greg presumed to be the bagged murder weapon in his arms with a clipped, “Found this in the skip behind the restaurant; definitely the girlfriend’s brother-in-law,” and swanning off in one of his magically summoned cabs. Fingerprints on the weapon were good, but a concise motive to go with it was better.

And Greg would be damned if he waited a day to get one.

So with Sally in tow (Sherlock wasn’t the only one who could experiment--it hadn’t taken Greg long to find out that if Sherlock had places to be, he’d give his evidence faster with Donovan present. The headaches were much worth it, in his opinion), they’d made their way to Baker Street, hoping to catch him before he faffed off anywhere else. 

It wasn’t even entirely his fault he had assumed Sherlock was the one showering. Sherlock had told Greg John had had a shift as explanation for the doctor’s absence, and what man wouldn’t shower after (presumably) digging around in a skip? Just because his bloody coat hadn’t been hanging by the door hadn’t meant much either: he could have already dropped it off at the dry cleaners or wherever the bastard got it cleaned.

Honestly, Greg thought in the seconds after he realized he was facing a starkers John, it was a simple mistake to make.

“Shite,” he cursed, backpedalling as fast as John hit the back of the shower. “Shite, John, sorry, I thought you were—”

_“Out!”_ John bellowed, and Greg could see the former Captain in him even with the man pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. _“Get out!”_

Greg had Sally ushered out onto the landing with the door quivering behind his back before the echoes stopped bouncing off the walls.

She raised an eyebrow at his red cheeks. “Wasn’t that Doctor Watson?”

Greg rubbed a hand down his face. “Yeah.”

“Was Sherlock…?”

“No. Not even here yet.”

“We just going to…wait for him here, then?”

“Safest thing to do, yeah.”

“Ah,” she said, but questioned no more, crossing her arms and leaning against the wall next to him. Greg had never been more grateful for anything in his life.

Until he heard the front door open and the distinct sound of bespoke Italian leather shoes wiping themselves on the rug.

\- - -

In contrast, Sherlock was having a pretty fantastic day.

His experiments the night before had finished ahead of schedule, leaving him wide awake in the small hours of the morning with nothing to distract him from his favourite pastime: cataloguing every possible thing about John.

Sherlock had watched John sleep on multiple occasions, under a number of variables, but it was still easily among the top studies of John he most enjoyed. He knew it was a sentiment-thing, the joy and peace he derived from being _so trusted_ that it was a rare thing for John to wake up, even under Sherlock’s most intense observations.

It was obscene how much Sherlock loved it.

He loved it nearly as much as the data he gathered, the data that (he hoped) made him a better partner for John. Last night, for instance, John had not slept well. It wasn’t a nightmare-night, but John had not been as relaxed as he needed to be to gain optimum rest. Sherlock had done his best to settle his lover (he tried many things John did to calm him: petting his hair, stroking his chest and belly, the “spooning” nonsense), but when he’d risen hours before John needed to leave at Lestrade’s summons, it hadn’t seemed to have done much.

Sherlock had almost stayed. But then he hadn’t had a case in _days_ , and this one had looked promising enough to entertain John after he finished his shift. And logically, there wasn’t anything he could do in the little time he had that would make any sort of difference, except to prepare for the evening, when he would have more time to focus on caring for John.

Yes, Sherlock could fix everything (if there was anything; John was only consistent in his inability to remain predictable) when John came home.

Mind made up, he had prepared to go, leaving notes to hopefully ease some of John’s troubles. (Checking in midday seemed like the perfect way to gauge how much work he would be in store for, though it probably would have been better to replace the milk before he’d left…)

And now he was home, with a not-quite-as-exciting story, but it was fine. Sherlock had milk, and he’d made sure it was the right kind. (He had dug through the bins for the old carton to store in his mind palace, _as well as_ taken a photo on his phone.) And he had just enough time to shower and surprise John on his lunch break, something that he figured would be much better than texting, if John wanted to see Sherlock as much as Sherlock wanted to see John (another consistent thing).

Sherlock was almost humming as he let himself him, but then he started wiping his feet and noticed the drying puddles on the steps.

_John was home early._

John was home early, much too early to simply be _done,_ no, he was _sent home early,_ and there were half-dried puddles on the steps.

Not good, definitely _not good._

Sherlock took the stairs three at a time, dread only building at the sight of Donovan and Lestrade waiting on the landing. Where they would only be if _John had kicked them out._

John had physically removed a total of fifteen people in all the years he had lived in 221b. While NSY members made up seventeen percent of those removed, Lestrade made up zero, because Lestrade was a _friend._

Lestrade was a _friend_ , Lestrade had been _removed from the flat_ , and Sherlock was very, very worried.

Lestrade cleared his throat, face flushing as he refused to meet Sherlock’s eyes. _Embarrassed?_ “Sherlock I—”

Sherlock could not hear an apology right now, _he could not._ “Lestrade, whatever you’ve done, whatever you’re here for, I don’t care. If you would be so kind as to _move_ , I will see you tomorrow as soon as I can, but if that isn’t soon enough I can send Mycroft—”

“No!” Lestrade pushed himself off the door, Donovan following his lead as he started for the stairs. “No, no that is not necessary; tomorrow’s good for me, perfect really, was going to suggest it myself, since you got…groceries and all to put up,” he said, nodding to the milk in Sherlock’s hand. “See you tomorrow then, thanks for your help.” And he bolted down the stairs.

Sherlock waited until he heard the front door slam before facing the landing one, nerves gathering in his stomach.

He wasn’t sure how much good the milk would do now.

\- - -

By noon, John gave fuck-all about his day.

After Lestrade booked it out of the flat and John had made sure his eyes weren’t going to melt out of his skull, he finished rinsing his hair before drying off barely as much as he needed to and climbing into bed.

A bed he would not be getting out of until this mess of a day _ended._

He heard the door behind him creak open, saw Sherlock’s shadow stretch over him, touching the far wall, but neither of them said anything for several minutes.

“John?”

He grunted in response, and immediately wanted to burrow further into the pillows. Just because he’d had a bad day didn’t mean he should take it out on Sherlock.

But Sherlock carried on before he could correct himself. “Do you want some tea?”

John sighed. He would _love_ a bloody cuppa, but there was one problem his genius seemed to have forgotten. “No milk.”

“I know; that’s why I bought some.”

John rolled over, and be damned, Sherlock really had, John’s brand held towards him as if he were about to leap out of bed to inspect it.

A watery giggle worked its way out of John’s mouth, Sherlock’s little gift doing more to wash away his day than the aborted shower ever could. “You bought me milk.”

Sherlock nodded, eyes solemn. “Yes. Tea then?”

“No,” John said, pushing himself across the bed. “I want you to put that in the fridge and come to bed.”

Sherlock blinked. “John, I was digging in a skip earlier, I should really—”

“Nope, don’t care. Put the milk up and come to bed.”

_“John.”_

 _“Sher_ lock.”

Sherlock huffed. “Fine, but you can’t complain about the sheets tomorrow.”

“Love, you bought me _milk_ , I don’t think I’ll be complaining about anything for the rest of the week.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I'm always up for chatting on my [tumblr](http://singularlyobsessed.tumblr.com/)


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